Dawn had not yet broken when the first horns sounded along the city walls of Harta. The delegation from Tirnovia had arrived under a grey sky, their banners snapping in the cold wind. King Halvek's retinue was vast, his knights polished like mirrors, his nobles clothed in fabrics that gleamed even in the morning gloom. Their arrival was meant to be a show of strength and alliance, yet it set the city's nerves on edge.
From the shadows of a narrow alley, Darian Duskbane watched, his towering frame blending with the darkness. Even at eight feet tall and built like a mountain, he could vanish into shadow when the city itself became an accomplice. His broad shoulders hunched slightly as he assessed the procession, counting the sentries, noting the placement of the Tirnovian banners, and, most importantly, noting Silas.
The traitor knight was already on the move, his black armor reflecting a sliver of dawn light. Silas patrolled the streets like a predator, scanning every shadow, every passerby.
Darian's chest tightened; he knew that any misstep would give him away. Silas would not hesitate, and if the tyrant's confidant fell upon him, it would be a fight unlike any other he had faced.
But Darian was not here for open confrontation — at least, not yet. His plan was simple in principle: disrupt the delegation enough to delay the alliance, ensure Mansis' court appeared weak, and create leverage that would not expose him. The details, however, required careful choreography.
From his vantage point atop the western wall, he could see the city square where the Tirnovian delegation would meet Mansis. Merchant stalls had been hastily cleared, cobblestones polished to a deceptive shine. Darian's mind raced as he reviewed his contingencies:
First, create a distraction by tampering with the central fountain, its water supply running red with a dye that would stain robes and banners, making the Tirnovian nobles think the city had been poisoned by rebellion.
Second, disable the drawbridges leading to the main gate. The delay would frustrate Mansis' men and force the king's delegation to take a less secure path.
Third, ensure Silas' attention remained focused on the wrong locations. A few well-timed shadows and rustling banners would keep him chasing phantoms.
Darian crouched, fingers brushing over a pouch of powders and small tools he had prepared in secret. Every movement had been rehearsed in his mind over the past two nights. Every possible guard rotation had been memorized. There was no room for error.
By mid-morning, the square teemed with people — citizens of Harta, nobles, and Tirnovian emissaries alike. The city had been ordered to cheer, and many did, their voices a mask over their unease. Whispers of Darian's name rippled through the crowd like a secret tide, a mixture of fear and hope. "The Outlaw… the knight who dares… the man who strikes the tyrant's hand…"
In the shadow of a fountain, he adjusted a small mechanism hidden beneath the stone edge. At his signal, a splash of deep red would bloom across the water, staining robes and banners. He imagined the faces of Tirnovian nobles, their eyes wide with alarm. Already, the effect would give Mansis' court a tremor of unease.
A sudden shout from the street below drew Darian's gaze. Silas had spotted movement — the first stirrings of Darian's diversion. The knight's head swiveled like a hawk, eyes narrowing. Darian's chest tightened. Timing would be everything. Too soon, and Silas would suspect. Too late, and the Tirnovians would arrive unprepared.
Darian's hand hovered over the lever. He could see King Halvek, a tall, stern man with coal-dark hair and a bronze crown, dismounting in the square. His eyes, sharp and calculating, swept the crowd. Behind him, his generals — scarred veterans from campaigns in the north — followed closely.
And then there was the King's Queen Consort, Queen Nina, discreetly moving through the crowd, her eyes flashing in recognition at Darian's shadowy position. A subtle nod passed between them, a silent acknowledgment: the plan was in motion.
The lever clicked.
The fountain erupted in scarlet, water hissing and splashing onto pristine garments. Gasps and screams followed immediately. The Tirnovians recoiled; the nobles shrieked, slipping on the wet stone. Servants ran to cover robes and banners, but the dye spread faster than their panic. Murmurs of poison swept through the crowd, a ripple of chaos perfectly calculated.
Silas spun at the sound, face darkening. "Who —?" His voice was lost amidst the cries. He drew his sword, scanning the square. Darian remained hidden, a shadow atop the wall, watching. The knight's predatory gaze narrowed, and Darian knew he was being hunted.
Darian leapt from his perch with the grace of a predator, landing silently behind a row of market stalls. He moved like a mountain ghost, eight feet of muscle and sinew blending with shadows, every step silent. Guards scattered before him, unsure if they saw him or imagined him. The sheer size of the man alone caused hesitation, and hesitation was enough.
Silas turned, finally catching a glimpse. His voice snapped, sharp as a whip. "There! Behind the stalls!"
Darian's sword was drawn in a heartbeat, catching the faint sunlight. The sound of steel slicing through the air brought a shiver of recognition even to those who had never seen him before. Silas lunged, his own blade a blur. The clash echoed against stone walls, a duel of strength and skill. Darian's reach allowed him to parry Silas' strikes and counter with devastating precision. Every swing forced Silas back, every step measured against Darian's immense stride.
Yet Darian did not intend to kill — not today. Silas was just a distraction, a thorn to draw the attention of Mansis' guards while the innocent were freed. And freed they were: men, women, and children who had been unjustly imprisoned for minor offenses or simply for being in the wrong place at the wrong time.
A girl of no more than twelve, shivering and tear-streaked, whispered to him, "Sir… are you real? You've come for us?" Her voice trembled with hope.
Darian knelt briefly, placing a reassuring hand on her shoulder. "I am, little one. Stay close. We leave now."
Each prisoner had a story, a thread of sorrow that weighed on Darian's heart. A baker accused of smuggling grain to feed starving families, a young mother arrested for speaking against the king's tax decrees, a scholar imprisoned for teaching children to read. Their names and faces burned into his memory; he would not let them vanish under Mansis' shadow.
The duel with Silas raged, every strike sending ripples through the air, sparks flying as steel met steel. Silas' eyes burned with fury and recognition — he knew this giant of a knight, knew the skill and history of Darian Duskbane. Yet even as he pressed, Darian's size and reach gave him the advantage. One sweep of his arm sent Silas stumbling into a cart, the clatter drawing attention away from the prisoners.
By midday, the freed men and women had melted into the winding alleys of Harta, shepherded by Darian's careful directions. Smoke from the fountain's dye mingled with the early sun, painting the square in a surreal crimson glow. Silas, bruised and enraged, finally called for retreat, dragging himself away to regroup, though his gaze lingered, promising vengeance.
Darian vanished into the city's twisting streets, eight feet of shadow among the people. The murmurs followed him. "The Outlaw… the knight… the savior…"
Even as he disappeared, he could feel the eyes of Mansis' spies following, the whispers of fear spreading like wildfire. He had struck without revealing himself fully, but he had made the tyrant's court tremble. And Silas would not forget.
Later, from the safety of a hidden cellar, Darian cleaned his sword and surveyed the small trinkets he had collected from the freed prisoners — a locket here, a scrap of cloth there. Every piece a reminder of why he fought, and of the lives still at risk under Mansis' reign.
The city's shadows seemed to hum with rumor. Darian knew the whispers would grow into legend. And somewhere, in the heart of Harta, the king's black-hearted confidant — Silas — nursed his wounds, plotting a day when Darian would no longer be a shadow in the city, but a man exposed.
But that day was not today. Today, Darian had won. Today, the innocent had walked free.
And the game of crowns and shadows had only just begun.